Steeplejack (Alternative Detective, #1)(47)

“’Old on,” she said. “Let me get my iron and some brown paper.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You’re Billy’s friend, aren’t you?”

She looked up at that, startled and, judging by the way she checked over her shoulder to make sure the housekeeper was not in earshot, afraid.

I couldn’t blame her. I doubted Billy would be considered an especially suitable catch for someone who worked—albeit menially—on Crommerty Street.

She risked a smile as she put the iron on the stove. “Let’s get you out of that pinafore,” she said. “’Ave a seat.”

I did so, relieved to take the weight off my aching feet. How Dahria walked around in shoes like those all day, I had no idea.

“How do you know Billy?”

“Mutual friends,” I said with an apologetic shrug. “I’m Ang, by the way.”

“Bessie,” said the girl. “You and Billy work together?”

“Nah,” I said, handing her the dress and watching as she picked the wax off before applying the iron. “A little overlap, but different circles.”

“Well, yes,” said the girl, as if that were obvious.

My hackles rose. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“With you being a lady’s maid and all,” she said, momentarily baffled by my look. “You thought I meant because you are…” She hesitated.

“Lani,” I completed for her. “Yes. Sorry.”

“No need,” said Bessie, relieved to get that over. “And to tell you the truth, we don’t see many of your sort around here.”

That was my chance.

“No?” I said. “What about a boy? Last week.”

The maid shook her head.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Positive. Why?”

“Someone said there was a Lani boy going from door to door all down the street,” I tried.

She shook her head again. Her face was guileless, innocent. I would lay everything I had that she was telling the truth. “I think there was a boy at Ansveld’s,” she said. “Across the street. Mr. Savil, the security guard, commented on it, but he never came here.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’d have seen him. I’m never off duty when the shop is open. Mr. Macinnes doesn’t like to be understaffed.”

I nodded. “Fancy district,” I said.

Bessie grinned. “Too fancy for the likes of me,” the maid agreed. “Or ’is Lordship, truth be told.” She said the last in a low voice.

“His Lordship?” I asked.

“Macinnes,” she said, her smile souring. “Jumped-up little nobody, he is. Amazed they ’aven’t drummed him out.”

“It’s a nice house,” I said. “Seems successful.”

“Oh, he makes his money, all right,” she agreed. “But this classy-gent routine is all an act. Why do you think he has the butler and the mahogany sideboard? So no one looks too closely at ’im.”

I matched her grin. “Bit shady, is he?” I asked.

“Oh we get all sorts in ’ere,” she said. “Especially after hours, when the posh folk ’ave gone ’ome.”

“Like who?” I asked, trying not to sound too interested.

“Oh, I don’t get to see them,” said Bessie. “If he knows they’re coming, we’re kept out of the way. They usually show up in the house anyway, not in the shop. Couple of weeks ago, some black fella came in. That was a first. Just wandered in from the street, big as life! And not a local black either. One of them ’unter types from the plains. Old bloke. Scared me ’alf to death, he did. Macinnes kept ’im talking for like a hour as well! I thought they’d just throw ’im out, but he was still ’ere when it came time to close.”

“But no Lani,” I said, guiding her back to the original question.

She shook her head definitely. “There,” she said, looking up from the dress and smiling, proud of herself. “That looks like it’s got it.”

“Very nice,” I said. “No wonder Billy is so keen.”

She laughed at that, but her question—“You think he’s keen?”—was real enough.

“Absolutely,” I said, thinking of Billy’s two purses and his sweet and silly notion of not soiling Bessie’s ring with stolen money.

“Well, that’s nice,” said Bessie, pretending she didn’t really care and smoothing my pinafore. “Just launder it as usual when you get ’ome and Her Ladyship shouldn’t give you any more trouble.”

“Oh,” I said, “she’ll find an excuse.”

“Don’t they always,” said Bessie.





CHAPTER

18

I HAD NEVER BEEN to the opera house. I had passed it many times, knew it as a landmark, an icon of the city, but it represented a version of the world in which I had no place. The prospect of going there now both thrilled me and so stirred my guts that I had to pretend to tie my boot just to sit down for a moment and breathe.

The building itself was a vast domed oval, every door and window ornamented with carved patterns and theatrical masks, every area of wall decorated with heraldic animals and coats of arms from the north. This was white Feldesland, and the carved beasts adorning its elegant and imposing exterior were as far from the creatures that roamed the bush only a few miles to our west as I could imagine.